


Ashes

by Stracciatellino



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Amestris, Angst, Banter, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Confessions, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Inspirational Speeches, Ishbal | Ishval, Ishval Civil War, Letters, Love Confessions, Moral Dilemmas, More fluff toward the end, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Alternating, Politics, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Revolution, Trials, War Crimes, but it's there don't worry, lots of politics, romance is not the main focus, updates weekly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-05-31 11:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19425349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stracciatellino/pseuds/Stracciatellino
Summary: Years after Promised Day, Riza helps Roy come to terms with their past. Together, they set out to make amends and bring about the change Amestris needs.





	1. Chapter 1

Riza only took a few cautious steps inside the tent before standing to attention and calling out: “General?”

It took him a few seconds to notice her. He was sitting, arched over his desk, reading from a tall pile of documents. Riza did not see him as often as she used to, and every time she did, she had trouble recognizing him. Gone was the coy smile, full of meaning and promise. Gone was the hopeful, triumphant gaze cast far into the distance. Gone was the laid-back, cavalier posture he would take on in the presence of a subordinate. Even his mass of straight pitch-black hair, always kept in a calculated state of irreverent unruliness, had begun to turn grayer and frailer. At thirty, Roy Mustang had looked five years younger than he was. At thirty-three, he looked at least ten years older.

“Ah, it’s you, Major,” he said, distractedly, when he finally took notice.

“Sir, I have Captain Breda’s report on yesterday’s skirmish in Sector 14.”

Mustang’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, thanks,” he said in a sigh. “Put it on top of the pile to the left.”

Riza executed herself as the General had already begun flipping through more documents. As she did, he lifted his head toward her again. “How many casualties?” he asked, his voice a guttural drawl.

“Eight,” Riza answered. “Three Ishvalans, five Amestrians. It could have been a lot worse if Breda’s men hadn’t stepped in so quickly.”

Suddenly dropping the paper he was holding, he brought head to rest on his hand. “There’s no end to it, is there? Almost twenty years, and the war still rages on.”

Riza felt something sickly well up inside her. She knew she had to stop it short before it got to her. “We are ending it, Sir. The violence has almost come to a halt this year. Even after yesterday, the death toll for this Spring is less than a fifth of what it was at this point last year.” She recited these facts and figures like a student trying to impress her teacher. She realized how hollow the words sounded.

“Yes,” said Mustang, his words even more hollow. “We’re adding fewer corpses to the pile than we used to.”

Riza’s gaze fell. Indeed, that was all that could truthfully be said for them. This wasn’t what they had envisioned when they left Central three years before, hurtling toward Ishval ahead of a massive convoy of experienced veterans, young recruits, food supplies, and construction materials. It was, according to people who studied these things, the largest humanitarian mobilization in the history of this country. It was also a drop in the ocean when compared to the scale of the death and destruction they had brought with them when, a decade ago, they had embarked on the same eastward journey. Riza and Roy had both known that, but they had also known that it was all they could do. Contemplating the future for the first time with his new pair of eyes, he saw a world of possibilities spread out before them. He had a plan – Mustang always had a plan. In classic Mustang fashion, the plan seamlessly married his own personal ambition with the earnest desire to change the world for the better.

The plan was simple: Ishval was to become a model, a testing ground for the change he would bring to all of Amestris. The region was to be rebuilt from the ground up, its buildings taller and more ornate than ever before. All refugees would be provided food and shelter for as long as they needed it, and developing a sustainable local economy would be a priority. Villages would appoint their own leaders, to whom the reins of the program would be transferred as soon as possible. By doing all this, Mustang was hoping to earn, if not their forgiveness, at least their trust. And, by advertising the extent of his success throughout the country, he would solidify the admiration that he had gained when he had led the assault against the traitorous generals in Central. This trust and this admiration could then be leveraged to force Grumman out and succeed him as Führer. Then, at last, he could fulfill his vision, and ensure that the events of the past decade could never happen again.

The plan had not failed, exactly. Tens of thousands of Ishvalans had indeed been returning to their ancestral lands. The soldiers in this mission, whom Riza and her teammates had carefully vetted, had been treating them with kindness and compassion. In a year, the State Alchemists had built enough homes for all of them. Local agriculture was beginning to take off. New problems had emerged, however. In the years following the War of Extermination, when the remaining Ishvalans had been driven out into exile or hiding, a number of ethnic Amestrians had begun settling into the now-deserted region. They were usually the most destitute in their native regions, and many of them had themselves lost everything they had during the seven-year civil war that had preceded the Extermination. Life in war-torn Ishval was rough for them, but it offered a chance to survive by living off the land. Of course, this had all changed when the Ishvalans had begun returning, and it wasn’t long before tensions flared up. Mustang’s army had been forced to take on a peacekeeping role, alongside its initial reconstruction mission. Given Ishval’s meager population, there was more than enough arable land to share, but not everyone could so easily set aside the hatreds of the past.

Still, Riza knew that there was more that was haunting the General besides the lingering violence. The Roy she had known from their days in Central could have faced even the most tragic of unforeseen developments. He remembered his lessons from the academy: “The battle changes. You cannot cling to an initial plan of attack. Your strategy must adapt to counter your enemies.” But the Roy that she was facing now was a changed man. The change had been slow and gradual, almost imperceptible at first. As they went out surveying the ravaged Ishvalan countryside, Riza had seen the hope in his eyes give way to grief. After giving rousing speech after rousing speech in his first few months, he had soon grown quiet, then downright taciturn. Every visit he paid to the refugees left him more shaken, harried, and almost trembling. Riza had seen him one day get accosted by a group of Ishvalan teenagers, who had thanked him for all he had done and called him “the good general”. The Roy she had known would have basked in the opportunity to share his dreams with the country’s youth. The Roy she had witnessed then had given them a polite nod and moved on, clenching his fists so tight that Riza could see him visibly in pain.

His resolve hadn’t dampened – on the contrary, he had been working harder and harder, at the expense of everything else in his life. Riza could clearly see that this was taking a toll on his health. She saw it and, in this very moment, she realized that she couldn’t stand to let it continue. She couldn’t lose him, and that meant she couldn’t let him lose himself.

“It’s almost three in the morning, Sir,” she said softly after a long silence had fallen. “You need to get some rest.” His warrant officers were under strict orders to wake him up every day at five-thirty.

Mustang scoffed. “Next year’s round of railroad construction isn’t going to plan itself, is it? And there’s Breda’s report. We need to know how these ethnic clashes begin if we want to have a shot at preventing the next one.”

Riza took a deep breath. “With all due respect… can none of this wait until tomorrow?”

“It cannot,” he said, raising his voice ever so slightly. He picked a paper on the inner right corner of his desk and held it out. It showed his schedule. “There’s _real_ work to be done tomorrow, Major. Let’s see,” he said, quickly reading through the document. “Twelve villages to visit to assess utility provision and discuss prospects for devolution. Three peacekeeping exercises to supervise. One religious ceremony to attend with the new High Priest. And the next round of orders to pass down on local garrisons. Orders I can’t give unless I’m fully informed of any and all recent developments.” He let a second pass before concluding, laconic: “You are dismissed.”

This scene had played out several time before, but this time, Riza had resolved not to let it end there. He’d have to forgive her.

She put her hand on his forearm and looked straight into his eyes. “Sir, this is killing you.”

His initial surprise soon gave way to what Riza could swear looked like a melancholic smile – the kind of smile they would share in the years after the War, full of mourning mixed with the relief of still having each other.

Then, he let out a sigh. “I can’t die just yet. Not as long as there is work left to do here.”

“And when the work is done? What about your greater plans for the country?”

Roy abruptly withdrew his arm. His brow furrowed. “I won’t be hearing any of that idealistic nonsense until our debt to Ishval has been paid in full,” he said, teeth clenched.

Riza knew exactly what to say next. There was only one possible answer. But it was one she dreaded to speak out loud.

She took two more steps around the desk and, foregoing all semblance of military protocol, put her hand on the General’s shoulder. “Our debt can never be paid back,” she said softly, almost whispering. “You know that, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer, but his silence said more than any words could have. For a minute, he remained perfectly still, facing down to his desk. Then, Riza began hearing short, halting sobs – muffled at first, then increasingly loud. She tightened her grip on his shoulder. He turned to face her, his face contorted into a tearful grimace. Without a word, Riza took another step and wrapped her hands around his neck. He buried his face in her uniform and soaked it with his tears.

She understood what was happening. The wound in his soul, hastily cauterized a decade ago, was at last cracking open. Riza knew all about this wound – hers had never cicatrized to begin with. Horror, grief and guilt were pouring out of it constantly, a steady stream that fueled her tears every night as she tried to sleep, and then her nightmares once she managed to. But its steadiness made it manageable. She could live with it, as a silent companion. For Roy, things were different. He had never given himself the luxury to grieve. From the outset, he had set his sight on the future, projected all his energy toward the change he wanted to see in the world. Eliminate Bradley. Avenge Hughes. Climb the steps to power. Protect those he cared about. These impossible challenges had kept him from ever having to face the past. In Ishval, he couldn’t avoid it anymore. Everything he saw, every moment his spent walking its desolate landscapes, was a testament to his sins.

Minutes went by. Riza continued to hold him tight and let his tears pour out. She knew there was nothing else for her to do.

At last, the tears stopped. Slowly, hesitantly, the General pulled himself back on his seat, wiped his reddened eyes on the sleeve of his uniform, and took several slow, deep breaths. Locking eyes with him, Riza tried to wordlessly tell him that she understood. From the look he gave her back, she knew she had succeeded.

More time went by before he finally spoke. “Riza, can I ask you something?”

His somber, lifeless voice made her heart jump, as did the fact that he had called her by name. She gave him an ill-assured nod.

“Why did you stay?”

Riza gasped. “What do you mean?”

“In Ishval. In the war,” Roy said, his voice starting to pick up strength. “Why did you stay, even after you saw what we were being sent here for? Hughes and I, we were crafty: we kept finding new ways to justify it. A soldier should always obey orders. Proving our loyalty was the only way to raise in the ranks and put an end to it. If we didn’t do it, someone else would. Leaving the battlefield would be cowardly. We had an infinite reserve of this tripe in store. But you were too sincere to fall for any of it. You always knew it was wrong, and you never looked for excuses.” Riza’s hands began to shake. “So why not leave, like Armstrong did? He got himself honorably discharged, and he wasn’t the only one. Why not you? Why did you keep on killing, and killing, and killing like us worthless bastards?”

His voice had grown louder as he spoke, culminating in something close to a scream. Riza’s gaze fell. This was a question she had carefully avoided asking herself for the past ten years.

“I-I couldn’t let you shoulder this burden alone,” she blurted out. “I had to take some of it on myself.”

Again, Roy’s gaze fell. “I never wanted this.”

“I know,” Riza said. “This was my own choice.”

Riza saw in his eyes that he still didn’t understand. Must he force her to spit it out? She felt tears welling up in her eyes. She wiped them and knew the time had come.

“I watched as… the man I loved gave his soul away,” she said, and Roy’s eyes opened wide. “I knew I couldn’t stop him. All I could do was follow him into the abyss, so that we would remain together even in sin. It was sick. It was twisted. But it was what I wanted.”

Roy nodded slowly. In that moment, Riza knew that her declaration would go unacknowledged. Neither of them could deal with this right now. Silence fell again.

It was Riza who broke it. “I can’t go on without your dreams of a brighter future. All these years, they have been my only guiding force in life.”

“Ah, yes,” Roy said, his voice full of ironic lightness. “That was always how it worked, during the war and after. I gave you the hope you lacked. You gave me the conscience I lacked. Quite an equivalent exchange, wouldn’t you say?” Then his smirk vanished, and his voice dropped again. “I’m out of hope, Major. How could I look to the future now that I’ve come face to face with the past?”

Riza stiffened. The time for sentimentalism was over. Her superior, her friend, her hero needed her. He needed someone strong enough to stand up to him.

“What about the people of Amestris?” She asked, her voice unflinching. “Don’t they deserve justice? Don’t they deserve to face their nation’s past? Don’t they deserve a government that serves them and protects them? If you’re not going to help them, who will?”

The surprise in Roy’s eyes let Riza knew that she’d hit a nerve. It was as if a blurred image was slowly coming into focus in his mind.

Ill-assuredly, he began: “I have no right to–”

“Enough!” Riza cut him off. “How dare you wallow in your guilt when there are people out there who need you, who rely on you? Get over yourself!” He sat perfectly still as she shouted at him, absorbing her every word. “You want to rebuild Ishval? Good! That’s what we’re all here for. But you’d better not use it as an excuse to work yourself to death, because _that_ would be true cowardice. You are going to live, and when you’re done here, you’re going to head back to Central and hold the military goons who run this country to account.”

Roy sat quiet, pondering. Then, a smile began to form on his lips. It was a kinder, truer smile than earlier.

“You’re right,” he said. “As always.”

Riza breathed a sigh of relief, responding to his smile with her own. Her Roy was back.

“Yes, we’re going to help this country change,” he continued. She could hear his old resolve creeping back into his voice. “But we can’t _be_ the change. How could we, when our sins forever bind us to the past we want to abolish? There must be another way – a more honest way.”

“You will find it, Sir. I am certain of that.” She let out a long yawn. “And now, we should both get some shut-eye.”

He nodded.

As she was about to leave, he added: “Tell my warrant officer to make it six-thirty this morning.”


	2. Chapter 2

Returning to Central had been a surreal experience. Roy could hardly believe that, only six years before, this city had been his home. Where _was_ his home, at this point? Certainly not in Ishval, the last place in the world he had any right to claim for himself. Yet it was not here in Central, and he doubted he would find it in East City either.

The worst part had been the journey through the city. Being driven in a military convoy, dressed in his ceremonial uniform, would have been uncomfortable enough. Some clever soul at Central Command, however, had decided to take it one step further and stage a formal celebration. And so, Roy had been carried in triumph, leading a full-blown military parade through streets filled to the brim with a cheering crowd. At least three women had proposed to him. It had taken all of Roy’s self-control to stop himself from lashing out. He had wanted to scream at these people, to put them all to shame for acclaiming a mass murderer. But he couldn’t afford to. His popularity was his greatest asset now, and he had sworn to make good use of it. He would not twist and abuse this power like he had twisted and abused flame alchemy.

The ordeal had lasted for more than three hours. Well into the afternoon, after one last wave to the crowd, he had finally been allowed past the gates of the Command Center. In the courtyard, he had been greeted by a newly-erected bust of none other than Führer Bradley, standing alongside those of Amestris’ most revered leaders of old. He had quickly averted his gaze, hoping no one had noticed his clenched teeth.

His hopes of getting down to business right away had been short-lived. Führer Grumman had been in the main hallway to greet him, accompanied by officers who had treated Roy with disturbing obsequiousness, but their meeting had been brief and formal. The substantive talks would have to wait until next day. Roy had hoped that meeting his old friend and mentor would bring him some comfort, blunting for a brief moment his overwhelming feeling of estrangement. However, as he’d looked at Grumman’s cap and insignia, he couldn’t shake from his mind the image of his predecessor’s marble effigy.

Policy discussions had been postponed in order to prepare for the reception that would take place in the evening, in his honor. For weeks Roy had tried and tried to dissuade Central Command from doing it, to no avail. Almost everyone who mattered in the country had been invited to celebrate the Flame Alchemist’s rebuilding and peacekeeping accomplishments. Several officers had been slated to speak before Roy himself would deliver the keynote address, kicking off a cocktail party. Roy had dreaded the prospect, but he’d done his best to prepare for it. He put the finishing touches to his speech in the afternoon, sitting alone in an office that had been vacated for him.

He was surrounded by soldiers, but the only ones whose company he craved were far away. His trusted men had not been deemed important enough to be invited. Falman was still stationed in Briggs, where Olivier Armstrong had declined her own invitation (Roy knew better than to suspect jealousy on her part, but others were not so charitable). Breda and Havoc had been left in charge of the peacekeeping force, with Fuery providing logistical assistance. Their continued presence was crucial to implementing the planned transition. Riza – whom he still, after all these years, thought of as “Riza” – was in East City, laying the groundwork for their future projects. He longed to join her.

The evening came, and Roy sat through long-winded paeans after long-winded paeans extolling his success in Ishval. All conveniently glossed over the reason _why_ it had been necessary to rebuild Ishval in the first place. Of the half-dozen military bigwigs speaking before him, Roy recognized two who had been in the room with King Bradley when he had promulgated Order #3066, and one who had participated in carrying out that order. Including himself, that brought the tally to four war criminals out of seven speakers. It was no wonder they carefully skirted around the issue. It was in that moment that Roy fully grasped the extent of the military’s corruption. It wasn’t merely the wicked, parasitic corruption of the homunculi and their accomplices, who were now safely locked away. A more mundane, but deeply insidious corruption still held sway over the country. It was the corruption that distorted history to avoid uncomfortable conversations, that pinned the blame narrowly to let as many friends and colleagues off the hook as possible, that sacrificed justice in the name of stability and comfort. He saw it clearly now, and seeing it cemented his conviction that the path he was about to embark on was the right one.

His own speech had to strike a delicate balance. He couldn’t get it all off his chest yet, not with so much still hanging in the balance. That bridge had to stay unburned a little longer. At the same time, he could not bear to turn Ishval into a prop with which to build up his own myth. He had settled on a short, sober reflection on what he had learned.

“There are two hopeful conclusions I draw from our work,” he told his audience. “The first is alchemy’s boundless potential for civilian uses. It is frankly shocking to see how little past governments have tapped into this potential, focused as they were on exploiting its military applications.” At this, a few attendees audibly gasped. “I will not bore you with statistics, but to give you a sense of the scale, our logistics bureau has estimated that the housing and infrastructure built by our fourteen state alchemists in a little more than six years would have taken five thousand construction workers and twenty to thirty years to complete.” The audience was dutifully impressed by these figures.

“The second lesson I take away is the value of listening carefully to what the people on the ground have to say, and involving them actively in the future of their land. We would never have managed to reach lasting peace if we had tried to impose it with force.” Lowering his voice, he concluded: “There is a deeper truth that we should keep firmly in mind, however: that even the most thorough, carefully planned and diligently executed rebuilding effort could never rectify the tragedy that unfolded in Ishval. Nothing our nation can give will make up for what it has taken away. The duty we have left, then, is to remember and mourn. Thank you all.”

The applause was resounding, but Roy could see on the faces of his spectators that this was not the note they had expected to end on. He had killed the mood, and part of him took a perverse pleasure in that.

His own mood improved later in the evening. Amid the many colorless apparatchiks attending the cocktail party, he managed to spot a few old friends and comrades – a handful of people he found he could still relate to. The first was Alex Armstrong, now a Colonel. He had been moved to tears by Roy’s concluding remarks (although mercifully not to the point of removing his shirt). Roy could see that he too was still haunted by the horrors of Ishval, and couldn’t stand seeing them swept under the rug. They exchanged a heartfelt handshake.

He then came upon the Elric brothers, who had just recently returned from their travels. Al was fascinated by his remarks on the civilian applications of alchemy, and vowed to employ the knowledge he had gained in the East toward these applications. Ed concurred, but Roy could see his thoughts quickly drifting back to his wife. He and Winry were planning on settling down and starting a proper family, and Ed knew that that would take him away from his studies somewhat. Regardless, Roy knew that both young men still had a lot more to offer to Amestris.

Just before taking his leave, Ed winked at him and said: “Tell me, General, are you still determined to get those 520 Cenz back?”

Roy thought about it for a few seconds, then gave him a melancholic smile. “I am more determined than ever, Fullmetal. But I’m done seeking things for myself.”

Leaving Ed to ponder what he might have meant, Roy soon after noticed an even dearer face.

“Gracia! It’s so good to see you,” he said, holding her hand. “How is Elicia?”

“She’s well,” Gracia answered cheerily. “She’s home with the babysitter. Hopefully she’s in bed now, although knowing her she’ll fight tooth and nail to stay up late. She’s such a ball of energy.”

Roy smiled and nodded. He dearly wished he could see for himself how adorable Elicia still was at the age of ten. But he knew he neither deserved nor could afford the distraction.

“She works hard at school,” Gracia continued. “When she grows up, she wants to join the military, like her father. She has so many questions about him.” A moment passed, and Roy realized that she was fighting off tears. “We miss him so much,” she concluded, flatly.

“We all do,” he answered.

Silence fell as memories overwhelmed them both. Roy wished that his memories were all as fond as Gracia’s. Instead, so many of them brought him back to the darkest moments of his life. Even mourning his best friend was a luxury he had to give up.

He let a few seconds go by, then took a breath. “Gracia, there is something I must tell you.” He owed her this much, at least.

She gave him a quizzical look.

It took Roy a few more seconds to decide how he wanted to phrase himself. At last, he began, softly: “I’m about to do something that could… make life harder for you and Elicia in the coming years. It’s the right thing to do, I’m sure of it. But it might cause you pain, and I want to take responsibility for it and apologize to your face. You don’t deserve this.”

“I understand,” Gracia answered. To Roy’s surprise, he could see in her eyes that she meant it. “Do what you have to do.”

Roy nodded. As they were about to part ways, she took his hand in hers and squeezed it gently. After all these years, it seemed they were still there for one another.

The party ended, and he hitched a cab to Madam Christmas’ new bar, which was noticeably bigger and fancier than the one he had blown up back in the day. He didn’t have a place to stay, having sold off his own Central City apartment years ago, and so she had offered him a room for the night. Other people might have found the situation awkward, but for him, it was comforting. It still wasn’t quite home, but it was undeniably family.

“You look older,” she told him, after they’d shared greetings and a hug.

“I am older,” he answered.

“You must have seen some awful things down there.”

“Ghosts, mainly.”

“Do you need a drink?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

The evening went on like this. They did not speak much, but every word they exchanged contained layers upon layers of meaning and affection. Such was the bond that they shared.

After an unusually long six-hour sleep, he headed back to the Command Center the next morning, eager to finally sort matters out. He was let in by a young Lieutenant, who ushered him into Führer Grumman’s office. The vast, imposing room, ornate with banners and military insignia, once again triggered flashes of King Bradley – specifically, of that fateful moment when Roy had understood that his plans had been foiled and his subordinates were in danger. He guessed that inspiring dread, and thereby obedience, was the very purpose of this room’s design.

“Ah, Mustang!” Grumman greeted warmly. “Come, take a seat.”

“Your Excellency,” Roy saluted, and complied.

“I’m sorry for all that fuss yesterday. I know that’s not what you’re here for. To be honest, we’re in dire need for some good publicity. You’ve probably heard that much of the country is going through economic hardship, and trust in the military leadership has never quite recovered from the events of 1915. That’s why I’ve been forced to delay organizing elections.”

Roy smirked. “Of course. Trust me, I know the value of good publicity!” In truth, his delight came from having two enticing rumors he had heard before confirmed by the most authoritative of sources.

Grumman nodded. “All right, then,” he said as he took a thick folder out of a drawer, placed it on his desk, and pulled a few documents out of it. “I got your final report the other day. It’s impressively thorough! I know you’re sick of hearing it by now, but your work really exceeded all our expectations. Now,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose and briefly running through one of the papers, “I’m looking at what you’re recommending we do with Ishval now that the reconstruction work is over. This is very well thought out, but I have to say, aren’t you pushing it a little far? You are saying that the military should turn all its powers and resources over to this new civilian-run authority you have installed.”

Roy swallowed. He knew that this would be the sticking point. Now more than ever, he had to play his cards right. He could never pursue his further designs in good conscience knowing that Ishval might be caught in the crossfire.

“I’m not calling for a full pullout, Sir. On paragraph IV.13, I recommend maintaining a task force to assist the civilian forces with peacekeeping missions when needed.”

Grumman frowned. “I know, I know, but you’re talking about less than fifty men for a population of over one hundred thousand! There is no way Central can maintain control with such a small contingent.”

“I have discussed it extensively with the local leaders,” said Roy, trying to sound authoritative. “Even after the reconstruction, there is still deep resentment for the military. They see us as an oppressive force, and who can blame them? It is my firm belief that the only way we can begin repairing the damage is through a show of trust.”

Grumman put a hand to his chin. “I like this idea of trust – no doubt this country needs more of it. Still, trust can be abused. What if a new civil war breaks out? The entire Eastern district would be defenseless.”

Roy gave him a pointed look. “Wasn’t the civil war itself caused by military occupation?” Grumman’s eyes widened. “Believe me, I am keenly aware of the risks involved. I have considered them at length. But we have tried the heavy-handed approach in the past, and it has brought nothing but misery. Isn’t it time we try something else?”

Grumman was nodding. He gave him one of his legendary grins. “All right, Mustang. You have convinced me. Maybe it is time to take a chance.”

He took another paper out of his drawer, this one bearing the Führer’s seal. He took a pen and signed it in one quick stroke. “There you go. Here’s the order,” he said, showing it to him. Roy had to wonder if he had always been planning to sign it, and had just been testing him all this time. He wouldn’t put that past his legendarily mischievous superior.

“Now then,” Grumman said, placing the order on a pile probably destined for administrative processing and pulling yet another document out. “Now that your work in Ishval is complete, I assume you’d like to discuss your career prospects?”

Roy gave him a wide grin. With matters in Ishval now settled, it was his turn to throw his old boss for a loop. “If you have time to spare, Your Excellency, I would appreciate it.”

“Of course!” said Grumman, ever more cheerful. “I have exactly the job for you. All the arrangements have already been made.”

He handed him the document. It was another executive order. An appointment.

“Director of the Central Command Center,” Roy read out loud.

“Indeed! You’ll be back under my wing, as second-in-command of the Amestrian military. It goes without saying that this would make you the natural candidate to succeed me as Führer. Armstrong won’t stand a chance.”

Roy furrowed his brow. “I am honored. I truly am. But to be honest, I had different plans in mind.”

Grumman burst out laughing. “You want to skip ahead so badly? Patience, young lad! I’m not planning to stick around forever. Just two or three more years, four at most. Then it will be your turn to shine.”

This was not how Roy had expected this conversation to go – even discounting the fact that he had just been called “young lad” at the age of thirty-six.

He cleared his throat. “I, um, I think you misunderstood me.”

“Oh, really? What are these plans you speak of, then?”

Roy straightened up. “Your Excellency,” he recited. “I request your permission to resign my commission, effective immediately.”

“If this is a joke,” said Grumman, mildly annoyed, “it’s gone long enough.”

“It’s not. I am serious.”

Grumman’s eyes widened. “You are aware that only active-duty senior officers are eligible to become Führer, aren’t you?”

Roy nodded. “I’m not after power. I’ve let go of that dream years ago.”

Grumman sighed. “You truly have changed. Such a shame: this country desperately needs leaders of your caliber.”

He let a moment pass, hoping for a reaction from Roy, but Roy sat still. He could think of no answer that would satisfy him.

At last, Grumman mumbled: “All right, all right. I’ll let you go. You’d better enjoy retirement! Given your rank and distinctions, your pension will cost us a fortune.”

Roy chuckled. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Oh!” Grumman said, his face suddenly lighting up. “I’ve been told that a certain young Major by the name of Hawkeye also resigned her commission a few days ago. You two wouldn’t happen to have plans together?” He punctuated the question with a wink.

“We do,” Roy said, trying to sound cheeky and hide his embarrassment.

They bid each other farewell, and for a brief moment Roy felt his old fondness for his mentor and comrade in arms resurface. Even after all these years, even after the choice he had made, it was painful to have to forsake it.

At last, he left the Command Center. He strode lightly through the wide halls and the courtyard and out the gate, as if an invisible yet crushing burden had been lifted off his shoulders. For as long as he could be called a man, the military had been his life. The military that he had joined with such idealistic fervor. The military that had made a monster out of him as it had so many young idealists. The military that he had desperately tried to reshape into a force for good. The military that, at last, his conscience could no longer abide. He knew that removing the uniform wouldn’t remove his sins, of course. Still, he had to break with his own past if he wanted to convince the country to do the same.

He took a cab to the train station and bought a one-way ticket for East City.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's Chapter 2! This one is a bit less self-contained than the first, and introduces the main plot threads that the rest of the fic will follow. I hope that you enjoyed it and will stick around for the next two! I'll make sure to keep this weekly update schedule.


	3. Chapter 3

“…we counted twenty-seven charred bodies. Seven more had thrown themselves out the windows to escape the flames. Twenty men; eleven women; three children.”

Riza sat quietly, struggling to maintain a stoic face as she absorbed Roy’s every word. She would cry later: now, she must be strong. She kept her eyes on the audience, surveying their own horrified yet enraptured reactions.

“This wasn’t a mistake,” Roy continued, his tone somber and clinical. “Let’s be very clear. We weren’t trying to hit a training ground, or a weapons cache, or any conventional military target. Every link in the chain of command knew full well that this was a war hospital, and the orders passed down from the top couldn’t be more explicit. It had to be sterilized. ‘Sterilized,’ that was the word of choice.”

Riza’s best efforts couldn’t contain the shudder that ran down her spine. She remembered this word all too well. It was engraved in her memories as deeply as the theory behind the weapon Roy had used to carry it out was engraved on her back. Gasps erupted from the audience.

“Many of us requested suspensions from active duty after that day. They were granted. We stayed off the battlefield for two or three days. Then, we went back and continued the work. I personally wiped out a dozen hospitals like this one. I could also tell you about the schools, or the temples” he concluded, “but the story is always the same.”

A deep, heavy silence fell. None of the twenty or thirty people who had massed in this cramped tavern to listen to them dared make a sound. Neither did Riza.

Like everyone else, she was hearing it for the first time. She knew the gist of it, of course. The nature of Roy’s missions was no secret to anyone who had served in Ishval, but Riza had rarely participated in those missions herself. She had never asked Roy for details, and Roy had never volunteered them. Now, she had vivid images to associate with the abstract horror. She knew she must take in these images, allow them to color her view of the man responsible for them.

This was on purpose. For over a year, they had walked the land, bearing witness to what they had done in Ishval. From East City, they had parted ways: she had gone North, he had gone South. It was a poetic coincidence that they had reunited in Riviere, of all towns. Riviere, the very first victim of Amestris’ lust for military conquest. This had been centuries ago, of course. Riviere’s current denizens fully embraced their Amestrian identity. Now, she and Roy sought to expose the dark truth at the heart of this identity.

At last, Roy spoke. “Hawkeye, would you like to share your experience?”

Riza nodded. They had already planned to deliver short versions of the speeches they each had honed in the squares, bars and taverns of cities and towns all across the country.

She took a deep breath and began: “I’m no legend like the Flame Alchemist. I doubt any of you has heard of me. In the war, I was one of many. I was lucky enough to avoid the frontline, though.” She paused. “I was a sniper.” She could see in the spectators’ eyes that she had caught their interest. The word _sniper_ carried such a thrilling, adventurous connotation. She hoped it wouldn’t anymore, at least for these people, once she’d be done speaking.

“Snipers aren’t useful in pitched battles. We are called in later, once capture is in progress. We find a secure area with a view on a strategic enemy position. And we ‘clean up’, as they say. When the battle is over, we guard our positions against enemy incursions. It was easier, in some ways. Commanders rarely asked us to deal with civilians, because any soldier can kill an unarmed family. Our skills are too precious to waste on anyone who doesn’t constitute a threat.”

Riza took another breath. Now came the hard part.

“This was comforting, in theory. Then comes the reality of the battlefield. Who constitutes a threat? When you’re positioned for an ambush, anyone who could spot you is one. And so, when four young boys walk in, probably searching for food in what they assumed was an abandoned city, you have to mow them down.” Riza’s voice quivered. She let a moment pass to regain her footing. “The oldest of them was maybe sixteen years old. The youngest couldn’t have been older than twelve.” She let her voice fall. “I killed the youngest last. A logical decision: he was the least likely to be able to run away. I can still see his face, frozen in the instant where shock turned into terror. Every time I close my eyes,” she concluded, almost whispering, “he is there.”

Silence fell again. Some attendees were in tears or on the brink of tears. Others had let their gazes fall to the ground. Others still shot confused and distressed looks at Roy and Riza, like children begging their parents for reassurances that everything would be all right.

After about a minute, a middle-aged woman from the last group found the courage to speak. “I-I don’t understand,” she began timidly. “I-I’m sorry but… if things were as bad as you say, we would have known, right? Someone would have told us. We have veterans of Ishval right here in Riviere and–”

“Yeah, I was there,” a young man’s voice came out from the back, tense but firm. “It’s as they say. I mean, I wasn’t there for all of it. I was just a corporal. But I’ve done things… things I can’t forget.” All eyes were now turned on the young veteran, yearning for an explanation that Riza knew he didn’t have. “None of us like to talk about it,” he continued. “I guess we’re ashamed.”

Riza nodded as the crowd’s gaze turned back to her and Roy. “No one enjoys recounting these horrors. It brings you back to a part of yourself you’re desperately trying to escape. Besides, you don’t know if people really _want_ to hear it. Maybe they’d rather believe that everything you did in Ishval was justified, that you fought a just and noble war. And speaking out means inviting judgment not just on yourself, but on your comrades in arms as well. It’s almost a betrayal.”

The veteran was nodding firmly. Another moment passed in silence.

“Then why speak out now?” the middle-aged woman asked.

Riza gave her a rueful smile. “We’ve decided to welcome your judgment. It’s what our consciences need, and, more importantly, we believe it’s what this country needs.”

“You want our judgment?” a young woman, about Riza’s age, cried out. Her eyes were already red with tears, and more flowed as she spoke “Well, here’s mine. I don’t know you, Miss, but I’ve heard all about the Flame Alchemist,” she sneered, gesturing toward Roy. “You were a hero. I remember hearing about your exploits in 1915, all this talk of justice. We all wanted you to be Führer, you know? We believed in you. We thought you’d be the one to set this country straight. And now you come here and tell us about slaughtering women and children! How could you? All these years, we knew there were fishy things going on in the military, but it was all right, because people like Mustang were there to fix it. Turns out, you’re just as bad as the others. You are a fraud.” Overwhelmed by tears, she let her face rest on another woman’s shoulder.

Riza exchanged a pained glance with Roy. She knew exactly how this woman felt. She too had been betrayed – a betrayal made crueler by the close bond she had already shared with Roy. Just this instant, as she saw both the wrenching pain and the earnest resolve in his eyes, she decided to forgive him.

“You’re right,” Roy began, “I am a fraud. I failed you when I chose to blindly follow the vilest orders. This is what it means to serve in the military.”

Throughout the crowd, Riza saw eyes brighten in sudden realization. She understood now that this anger, this feeling of betrayal, was Roy’s greatest weapon against the military. For decades, its propaganda had built an idealized image of what being a soldier meant. This myth not only facilitated recruitment, but also inspired reverence and obedience from civilians. The ideal soldier was brave, dashing, compassionate, level-headed, resourceful, and above all, fiercely loyal. As an officer, Roy Mustang had seemed to embody these virtues to perfection. For him to shatter this image of himself was more than an exercise in contrition: it shattered the myth itself.

“There is nothing I can do to change that,” he continued after a dawn-out pause, “except telling you the truth. Now, you know it. You know the crimes we committed, you know who ordered these crimes, and you know the system that made it all possible. If you can’t stand it, if you want to see justice and change in this country, you will have to make it happen.”

After a brief silence, the owner of the tavern, a broad-shouldered man in his forties, spoke up for the first time since he had introduced the two guests. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but how in the world are we supposed to make it happen? We’re not the ones calling the shots in this country. Why are you talking to regular folks like us instead of taking it up with the bigwigs in Central?”

“I know what they’re up to,” the trenchant voice of an old man erupted before Roy could answer. “They’re trying to stir up trouble. They want to whip us into a frenzy to play some political game. You were in West City recently, weren’t you?” Roy nodded. “Well, my buddies told me a bunch of young punks took over the Command Center there a couple days ago. Local troops were overrun and had to high-tail it. So that’s your goal, isn’t it?”

Roy seemed eager to speak in his own defense, but Riza silenced him with a look. She could see that the old man’s words had succeeded in sowing doubt in the audience. Only blunt sincerity could dispel it. Roy gave her a nod to go ahead.

“We’re not going to tell you what to do,” she began. “This is a decision each and every one of you has to make. But yes, we believe that changing this country will require taking action against the military. We’d like it to be resolute but peaceful. The last thing this country needs is more bloodshed.”

“What about just voting?” said a young man. “We’re finally having free elections next month! I’ve been thinking a lot about how I’ll cast my first ballot. Let’s make sure the new Assembly is filled with people who’ll stand up to the military.”

“And what if the military doesn’t play along?” came an older woman’s voice. “What if they ignore the Assembly, or they dissolve it again? I’ve seen it happen soon after King Bradley took over. The Assembly alone won’t stand a chance. We need to be out there to back it up.”

“Right!” someone else added. “The military didn’t even want to hold elections, remember? I heard people marched in the streets last Spring to force their hand.”

“There were big strikes in the South and East too!” Yet a new voice joined in. “All the trains just stopped dead in their tracks – no way to get from a city to another. And a cousin from Dublith told me that when a unit was sent in to break the picket line, most soldiers deserted and joined the strikers!”

Many gasped at this revelation. Then the conversation went on.

“Yeah, I work at the steel mill and I’m ready to strike if the military tries to pull a fast on the folks we elected.”

“Same here, but you know what? Maybe we shouldn’t wait for the military to mess up. We should send them a message, show them we’re ready to fight.”

“There are these new clubs that are springing up everywhere. What do they call them, Civic…”

“Civic Action Groups! My sister joined one in West City. They spread anti-military messages, they stage protests, and I think they’re looking for candidates to run in the election.”

“Why don’t we start our own, right here and now?”

At this point, Roy turned to Riza, and in a glance they agreed that it was time for them to go. Their task was complete: the people of Riviere had taken matters into their own hands. Discretely, Riza and Roy took their leave. The crowd bid them a solemn goodbye. There was no applause, not a word of praise or blame; only silent nods that seemed to signify understanding.

They hopped into Roy’s car and drove back to the small inn in the town’s outskirts where they had booked a room in the morning. The military had not taken kindly to their activities over the past year, and their pensions had quietly been cut within the first few months. The fact that they still received pensions at all, and hadn’t been summoned before a court-martial, implied that the military feared the potential backlash from going after them openly. Or maybe Grumman still harbored some affection for them, even after all this. Riza wanted to hope so. Either way, they had been forced to watch their expenses. This wasn’t too hard, as both were accustomed to the frugal life of a soldier. Even sharing a room, which they never had before, came naturally to them. Riza felt no embarrassment changing into her night clothes in front of Roy, and only when she exposed her scarred back did he avert his eyes.

They turned off the lamp that shed a dim light on the room and lay down in bed. It only took a few minutes in the darkness before the memories began rushing into Riza’s mind. This happened every night. Softly, she began weeping. Minute after minute, the tears kept flowing, and her sobs grew louder. She tried her best to rein them in, to keep Roy from hearing them. For a while, she thought she’d succeeded. Then, she heard his voice, deep and somber.

“Riza.”

She froze in place, even the flow of her tears ceasing abruptly. Even now, as they tried to ditch the formalities of military protocol, she couldn’t help shuddering when he called her by her name.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment.

“It’s nothing,” she said, her voice quivering but without hesitation. “It happens every night. It’s not you.”

“Of course it’s me,” he snapped. “I know that you bear my sins as your own, because I used your father’s work.”

Riza stayed silent. There was no point in denying it.

“Every time I unleashed my flames on Ishval, I was betraying you,” he continued. “I know I can’t ever make up for Ishval, but I can’t let go of the hope that, one day, you at least might forgive me.”

“I already have,” Riza said softly. “Just this evening, as you were telling your story. I think I needed to hear it from you at least once. Now I’m ready to move on.”

Roy let out a nervous sigh. “Thank you,” he said, his voice muffled. He let a few seconds go by, his breath slowly settling down. “Yes, let’s move on. Tomorrow, we’ll be in Central. Let’s see how the heart of the military’s power welcomes us.”

Riza smiled. “It’s happening, isn’t it? Your revolution is finally marching on.”

“Not my revolution,” he said flatly. “It belongs to _them_ – to the people we meet every day. One person can stage a coup, but it takes a people to carry out a revolution.”

“You’re right,” she answered. She meant it, and yet she also knew that none of this would be happening if it weren’t for Roy’s vision. He had provided the spark, but the people now directed the flames.

Silence fell. Riza shifted on her side, ready to let the tears nurse her to sleep. Then, he spoke again.

“There is… something I need to know,” he said haltingly. Riza could sense that he had been sitting on this for some time.

“Yes?”

“A few years ago, in Ishval,” he began, weighing each word, “you told me you’d watched the man you loved lose himself.”

Riza’s heart skipped a beat. In four long years, he had never brought up that incident. Wherever this was going, she knew things between them would never quite be the same.

“Do you… could you ever love that man again?” he blurted out.

Tears began streaking on Riza’s cheeks again. But these tears were different – steady, serene. Tears of relief.

“Do you think I ever _stopped_?” she breathed, in between two sobs.

She extended her hand across the bed, and found his. They met in a tight lock. What seemed like eternity went by in absolute stillness and silence.

“We can’t,” said Roy at last. “Not with the fate we’re seeking.”

“I know,” Riza said evenly. She didn’t need his intimacy or his affection. It was enough to know that they shared this bond, that they had shared it all along.

“Good night,” he said softly.

“Good night… Roy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the third installment! This one leans *heavily* into the angst and trauma, which was inevitable given the subject matter, but I tried to handle it as sensitively as I could. Again, all feedback is welcome!
> 
> This should also give you a good sense of where this is all headed (though the ultimate endgame will have to wait for chapter 4, of course!). Politics are going to keep playing a big role in the narrative, so hope you enjoy that!


	4. Chapter 4

The sun was shining bright this morning, casting long columns of light through the window’s bars. As had become his habit over the past month, Roy sat on his bunk, reading. He had never been much of a reader before, always preferring to leap into action. Reading the concise and narrowly-focused military reports he needed to do his job properly was frustrating enough – anything else would be an unacceptable waste of time. Everything had changed after he’d arrived here. It had been painful at first: spending most of his days alone in a room with nothing to do – no plan to hatch, no great purpose to work towards – had filled him with confusion and dread. Soon, though, this initial panic had faded, and in its place, a newfound clarity had begun to set in. This was victory. This was the culmination of all his plans, of all his work. He had fulfilled his purpose. He was free.

He was halfway through an anthology of Ishvalan poetry, a gift from Scar when he’d visited him last week, when a voice called out: “Mustang?”

He looked up to see a young Guardsman standing outside the cell, his expression alert but gentle. He wore the plain, unadorned green shirt and pants that identified his allegiance a little haphazardly, and held in his hands the bunch of keys for this wing of the jail.

“Today’s the big day,” he said lightly. “I’ll be escorting you.”

Roy let out a sigh. So that was it. He was about to receive his final marching orders.

He knew the procedure by now. He stood up, turning his back to the bars with his hands behind it, as the Guardsman entered the cell and handcuffed him. Then he followed him into the corridor, where two more Greenshirts watched him from behind.

“I’m sorry for all this charade,” said the one who had handcuffed him as they began walking. “Protocol, you know. We wouldn’t treat you like that if it were for me. Heck, if it were for me, you wouldn’t be locked up here in the first place.” The other two made approving noises.

“I appreciate it,” said Roy with a placid smile. “But I’m exactly where I want to be.”

They led him to a heavy vehicle that looked like it had been requisitioned from the military, and drove off through the streets of Central City. Their destination, too, had once been military property. When he had first been taken to the courthouse for questioning, he’d recognized it as a former barracks. He had been informed that many more former military sites were being repurposed for civilian use.

This was far from the only change. As he looked out the window, Roy could hardly recognize the Central City he had known. Never before had he seen its streets and avenues filled with so many people, all bustling around in a joyful frenzy. Newspaper boys touted the latest edition to come out of their newly free presses. Freshly hired government clerks in disheveled suits rushed across the streets carrying stacks of papers under their arms. Groups of five, ten, twenty people stood on sidewalks or sat outside cafés and restaurants, engaging in passionate conversations. Most striking of all was what was missing: no patrols in pristine blue uniforms marching in formation with their rifles held high, keeping a watchful eye on the citizenry. Until recently, it had been impossible to walk a few blocks without bumping into one. To some extent, the green had replaced the blue. But the three small groups of Guardsmen that Roy spotted along the way bore no comparison to the imposing patrols of old. They strolled casually, most of them unarmed, frequently stopping to chat with civilians. _So,_ he thought, _this is what a revolution looks like_.

Revolution had indeed swept the country, more swiftly than Roy had ever expected. The wheels had begun to turn as soon as the Assembly’s election had concluded, only five months ago. Of the 623 Delegates elected, over four hundred had the backing of the Civic Action Groups that had sprung up throughout the country, and many of those who didn’t still proved sympathetic to their cause. As they began making their way to Central to take their seats, these Delegates were stunned to see hundreds, sometimes thousands of their constituents pack up food, clothes and weapons to escort them on the journey. Cheerful convoys of C.A.G. members and fellow travelers slowly converged on the capital from all corners, steadily growing in size. Roy had not been privy to the discussions inside the Command Center, but he could easily imagine the panic that must have set in when these crowds, far too large to be controlled, had poured in. Many residents had opened their doors to the travelers; those who couldn’t find such hospitality had set up makeshift camps in the train stations.

The first meetings of the Assembly had been a thunderous affair. Roy had followed them with Riza on Radio Capital, which broadcast every minute. In its first sitting, the Assembly had voted to begin drafting a new constitution for the country and established an Executive Committee to take charge of the administration of government. This was a provocation the military couldn’t tolerate. Executive Committee members were denied access to the facilities and staff they had requested, and a statement from Central Command had accused the Delegates of overstepping their authority. Rumors circulated that hardliners were pressing Führer Grumman to crack down on these subversives. Far from being cowed, the Assembly took the challenge head on. In the next sitting, it had voted to create a Civil Guard tasked with protecting it and enforcing its decrees. Recruitment was not a problem, of course: this was exactly what the masses of civilians had come here for. The newly minted Guardsmen donned their makeshift green uniforms, haphazardly formed platoons and squads, and rapidly secured large sectors of the city. They outnumbered the soldiers in the city by a factor of six or seven to one.

Roy had dreaded, in these heady days, that bloodshed was imminent. He was ready to bear the weight of these innocent victims on his shoulders, as he had so many others. But the bloodshed was not to be. First, the Guard raided the military weapons caches, encountering little resistance. The Assembly then issued an ultimatum: Central Command was to dismiss the hardliners in its senior staff, relinquish its civil powers to the Executive Committee, and subject itself to a public inquiry. The officers could never accept such terms. And yet, their options were fast narrowing. Soldiers had begun to desert in droves, many switching sides outright. Roy and Riza had contributed, talking several units into defecting. When the Guard had launched an assault on the Command Center, only a few dozen soldiers had stayed on to fight, and only a handful had fallen before Grumman gave the order to cease fire and turned himself in, together with most senior officers. The hardliners had managed to escape, rally the few remaining loyal units, and launch a counterattack, leading to the only true battle of this lightning civil war. In the end, however, these holdouts too were overwhelmed and surrendered.

And so, less than a month after the Assembly’s first meeting, it had all been over. The hardline officers had been put to trial and imprisoned. Grumman and his comrades, meanwhile, were allowed to retire peacefully with a hefty pension. The old fox had paid Riza and Roy a visit before heading back East, assuring them that he respected their decisions and harbored no resentment. He seemed almost relieved to be out of power. The military he had once presided over was now firmly under civilian rule, led by a board of Commissars appointed by the Assembly. The vast majority of its officers and troops had been discharged, leaving only the minimum required to guard the country’s borders. Not a single active-duty soldier remained in the entire Central district. It was then, after the dust had settled, that Roy had heard the news he’d long been waiting for. The Assembly had passed legislation to investigate the Ishvalan War of Extermination. It granted a jury of ten Amestrians and ten Ishvalans extraordinary authority to arrest and try senior officers and state alchemists involved in the events. Roy had turned himself in as soon as he’d received the warrant. He had been found guilty a week ago, and was now awaiting his sentence.

The vehicle parked, and Roy was ushered out of it and into the narrow halls of the barracks-turned-courthouse. The trial was held in what had once been the dining hall. The judge and jury sat at one end of the room, while a row of narrow stalls had been set up for the two dozen defendants. Roy’s eyes met those of Alex Armstrong, and they exchanged a wordless but meaningful greeting. When the revolution had broken out, he had removed his uniform once more – once and for all.

“Well, my job ends here,” said the Guardsman as tied Roy’s handcuffs to the stall. “Good luck!” he added with a smile and a gentle tap on Roy’s shoulder.

“Pleasure meeting you,” Roy answered. “What’s your name?”

“Leo – Leo Rhyne. We’ve met before.”

Roy gave him an embarrassed look. “I’m sorry. I’ve met a lot of people recently.”

“Riviere,” he said lightly. “I was talking about casting my first vote.”

Roy had only the vaguest recollection of the encounter. Still, he gave a firm nod. “You did far more than that. I’m proud of you.”

The Guardsman struggled valiantly to suppress the blush that covered his cheeks, to no avail. “Th-thank you,” he said at last, and took his leave.

“Order,” the judge commanded, in a firm but even tone, after a few minutes. She was in her mid-forties, and had apparently worked as a court-martial lawyer in the South before the revolution. “In accordance with Special Provision #47 of the National Constituent Assembly, the Supreme Tribunal for Ishval is in session. Sentencing shall now proceed in accordance with articles 113-136. May the jury please stand.”

The twenty jurors complied, and their speaker stepped forward to a podium. Roy knew him as an Ishvalan village leader he had occasionally worked on rebuilding with.

The judge began: “Defendant King Bradley was posthumously found guilty of high treason, conspiracy against the Amestrian people, conspiracy to commit genocide, three counts of conspiracy to conduct unethical research, seven counts of abuse of power, and four counts of murder. The defendant’s passing precludes formal sentencing. Nevertheless, in accordance with article 139, the jury is permitted to recommend remedial action to competent authorities. Does the jury avail itself of this prerogative?”

“Yes, your honor,” said the speaker. “The jury recommends that the defendant be stripped of all ranks, titles, and benefits previously awarded to him and his estate, and that all monuments and engravings in his honor be destroyed with all deliberate speed.”

Roy had a passing thought for Mrs. Bradley and Selim. He hoped their lives wouldn’t be disrupted too dramatically.

Followed a parade of senior officers who had planned and overseen Order #3066 and the Philosopher’s Stone project. Cremin got another life sentence slapped onto the one he was already serving, as did Edison and several of their cronies. There was no surprise there.

Then came the turn of the state alchemists. Roy began listening more intently as the jury doled out its punishments: twelve years; fifteen years; twenty years. These were his former comrades, the people he had fought side by side with in the sands of Ishval. Many of them now considered him a traitor – and with good reason.

“Defendant Timothy Marcoh was found guilty of war crimes, six counts of unethical research, and fifty-seven counts of accessory to murder,” the judge enunciated. Roy took notice of the old friend, standing at the far end of the row. He looked serene. “Prosecution has requested seventeen years’ imprisonment, including ten without the possibility of parole. What is the jury’s decision?”

“We recognize the defendant’s desertion and his cooperation with the inquiry as extenuating circumstances. We sentence the defendant to three years’ imprisonment, eligible for parole immediately, and a lifetime ban on the use of alchemy.”

A few gasps echoed from the audience. This was the lightest sentence thus far.

“Defendant Alexander Louis Armstrong,” the judge went on soon after, “was found guilty of war crimes and four counts of accessory to genocide. Prosecution has requested nine years’ imprisonment, including four without the possibility of parole. What is the jury’s decision?”

“We recognize the defendant’s early discharge and his cooperation with the inquiry as extenuating circumstances. We sentence the defendant to time served and a lifetime ban on the use of alchemy.”

Louder gasps erupted, and the flashes of cameras lit the room as two Guardsmen escorted the muscle-bound veteran to his freedom. Roy could swear he saw pink sparkles around him as he exited the room, his solemn expression betraying neither joy nor bitterness.

There were few names left. Roy knew that his would come soon. In these last remaining minutes when his future hung in the balance, his thoughts went back to her. Riza. Hopeless, stubborn Riza. He had tried so hard to keep her out of his mind.

She was supposed to be free now. She was supposed to finally move on and build a life for herself. Special Provision #47 explicitly granted amnesty to common soldiers and junior officers, provided they had not overstepped their orders. Everyone recognized that going after hundreds of naive youngsters who had been tricked or bullied into participating in the slaughter would do more harm than good. Instead, they were called upon to testify, recounting before a commission everything they’d seen and done, to provide historical documentation and closure. Riza had obeyed, meticulously rendering every detail she could recall. However, she could never accept being left off the hook. She had pestered the commission for weeks, until at last they had accepted to waive her immunity and try her.

She had gotten two years. She was eligible for parole anytime, but, in a letter to Roy, she had made it clear that she would serve every last day. When he had read it, Roy had punched the wall of his cell hard enough to break some bones. Strong, righteous, obstinate Riza. Once she set a course, she followed it to the bitter end.

“Defendant Roy Mustang,” the judge began, “was found guilty of war crimes and twenty-eight counts of accessory to genocide. Prosecution has requested twenty years’ imprisonment, including twelve without the possibility of parole. What is the jury’s decision?”

Concern began to creep in the back of Roy’s mind. After Marcoh’s and Armstrong’s shockingly lenient sentences, and given the popularity he enjoyed among this revolutionary vanguard, would he too receive a slap on the wrist? No, he couldn’t stand that. Not after all he’d done.

“We recognize the defendant’s subsequent work for the rebuilding of Ishval, his leading role in bringing these crimes to light, and his cooperation with the inquiry as extenuating circumstances,” the speaker announced, and Roy feared the worst. “We sentence the defendant to seven years’ imprisonment, including four without the possibility of parole, and a lifetime ban on the use of alchemy.”

Roy let out a long-drawn sigh. This was less than he deserved, but it was real punishment.

As the last three alchemists received their sentences, he put his mind at peace. He knew what Riza must have felt, after all. He knew she needed this as much as he did. Lighthearted, he let two new Greenshirts escort him back to his cell. As soon as he arrived, he took pen and paper and began writing.

Four days later, Roy was again reading when a Guardsman arrived, carrying a letter. As soon as he recognized Riza’s pristine handwriting, he swiftly tore through the envelope and began reading.

_Dear Roy,_

_Thank you for telling me your sentence as soon as you could. I won’t comment on the fairness of it: such a judgment does not belong to us. Still, I’m glad you are at peace with it. I’m also glad that you understand why I too needed punishment to find peace._

_Please don’t feel sorry for me. Just as I let you bear your sins, please let me bear mine. To be honest, it’s barely even a burden. Prison is simple and straightforward, not unlike military life. Living alone in a cell or alone in an apartment will make little difference for me. I am not waiting to be released: all I’m waiting for is to see you again._

_We haven’t spoken much of our future life together. How could we, when we lacked closure for our past lives? Now, the future is finally coming into focus for me. Maybe I’m selfish, but with our work completed, I want to give us a chance to be happy. I don’t want the rest of our lives to be defined by our past actions, the good or the bad. When you’re released, let’s settle down in a small provincial city. Could we try our hand running a tavern? I’ve noticed you’re an excellent cook, and I think I could make a capable manager._

_There is something else. I wish I knew a way to say it without jarring you – you know that subtlety has never been my strong suit. I would like to raise a child with you. I slowly realized this during my first weeks in prison. My hand is trembling as I write these words, thinking of your reaction. Please don’t be scared. If this is not what you want, I will accept it. No matter what, I will remain by your side. Regardless, we have years to think about it. Even if we make this choice, we have no guarantee: I will be nearing forty when we see each other again._

_You told me once that you had given the world nothing but ashes. That may be so. But ashes are not just the remnants of destroyed life: they also nourish the soil out of which new life will sprout. I do believe that, in whatever form, we will have given new life to this country._

_Yours, to hell and back,_

_Riza_

Long before Roy had finished reading, his tears had begun staining the paper, turning Riza’s words into a collection of formless puddles. He quickly put the letter down to avoid ruining it any further.

It was impossible to make sense of all the thoughts rushing through his mind in that moment. Joy, fear, desire, confusion all vied for control of his consciousness. Above all, he knew that he was not worthy of the happiness promised to him, that he had no right to it.

He knew, and he didn’t care. He would take it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it! Here's the conclusion to the fic. I tried to juggle all the various elements, from the politics to the psychological introspection to the romance, in a way that tried to give the characters we know and love a happy ending, while at the same time providing justice for Ishval. I hope I was able to find that balance, but you'll be the judges of that! I also hope the political exposition wasn't too much - I personally live for this stuff but I know it's not to everybody's taste.
> 
> Also, a note to say that it feels really uncomfortable publishing something with a fire theme so early after the KyoAni tragedy. Thankfully the theme isn't too heavy in this chapter, but I did consider delaying it for a while. I ultimately decided not to because I feel it's important to keep the commitment I made to you guys to update it once a week. Still, I totally understand if anyone is uncomfortable reading it now. There are various ways to help KyoAni get back on its feet that you can easily look up online, as I'm unfortunately not allowed to share them here.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first published fic, so any feedback is very welcome! I'm planning to post a new chapter with regularity about once a week, so if you like this, make sure to check it out again next week. This will be 4 chapters total, and I already have the story fully planned out.


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